


the window

by yellowdahlia



Category: Original Work
Genre: here for a good time, im just writing here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-30 04:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowdahlia/pseuds/yellowdahlia
Summary: He sees the boy light a cigarette. Then the boy does see him, makes a big show of it, turning his head slow, cigarette dangling from his mouth. They lock eyes. The boy looks slightly hostile. He feels daunted again. He feels scared. He feels far too exposed. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t like the pair of eyes staring into his.





	1. chapter one

The hair he had cut himself was beginning to fall into his eyes again. He does not wipe it away, instead settles on seeing the night in front of him through slits of badly dyed black. He would soon have to cut it again, but it always turns out messy, choppy. The sloppiness always seems to fit him, no matter how hard he wishes it didn’t. The uneven thing on top of his head seemed to perfectly match his ever wrinkly clothing, the shoes that are never tied and are caked with dirt, the chipped nail polish that only adorned a few select fingers, and the face, the face with permanent streaks of black on either side, never distinguishable between makeup of days before, and the inevitable excess of hair dye. He never cuts his hair short enough for it to not fall in his face, anyways, so maybe he won’t have to touch it for a while. And he’s sure he’d look even worse if his hair was any shorter. And, he just dyed it - an impossible job that, almost never turns out right - the day before, so maybe he should leave his permanently horrid hair alone. That’s what he usually does. Maybe one day the horribleness will consume him. So far that day has not come. 

After a few moments of staring into the dark street, half hidden by his hair, he decides to look down. He’s on the third floor and when he sees the ground it kind of makes him feel sick. He keeps looking down anyway. Tonight feels like a strange night. The air feels colder and more aggressive as it passes over him and makes it way through the trees. The large, tall, white houses staring back at him from across the street seem to glare. He does not know why they are being so intimidating. They’ve never been that way before. But, of course, he knew it was possible. They looked far too nice, too perfect, too exactly the same. 

It bothers him. They look so perfect. And he doesn’t. He’s the farthest thing from it and he knows he looks like a stark shadow against his house that looks exactly like the ones menacingly surrounding him on the street. His dark clothes and dishevelled manner was never passed over here. It never will be. He shudders. He takes in a shaky breath and considers going back in to get his inhaler. But he’s not sure it has anything it and if it’s empty then it wouldn’t have been worth it for him to even go and fucking get it. 

God, he feels awful. He kicks his legs against the house. His one small rebellion. He considers going in and just going to sleep. There’s nothing for him out here. Unless his mother’s rose bushes don’t count for anything. Maybe they could be his bed tonight. Maybe he could let go of the window sill and see where the passive wind takes him. Maybe it’ll float him up and far away from here, with the hundreds and hundreds of carbon copy houses and carbon copy people. Maybe it’ll take him to New York City. Maybe he’ll crush his mother’s prized roses like he’s always wanted to. He hates those fucking roses. She mother’s them more than she mother’s him. It’s always made him angry. 

He should go to sleep. He doesn’t want to stay out here any longer and if he does the air might start to whisper and make him do something crazy. Like stare at the roses until he finally decides to flatten them. He doesn’t want to do that. Not at all. He’s sure he’ll survive and the sharp flowers will probably break his fall but he doesn’t want to die. That’s the farthest thing from it. He’s terrified of the thought of dying. There’s something about the way sitting on his window sill that makes him feel. He feels uneasy. He feels daunted. It makes him wonder what would happen if he slipped. It makes him wonder how much more he can rebel against his parents. 

Maybe they’d notice him. He always pulls stunts, though. He’s a natural born stunt-puller. They never really say anything, though. Bastards. Shitty parents. Shitty people.

He should go to bed. He needs to go to bed. He needs to clear his head. He needs to close the book on today and start new tomorrow. Maybe he’ll hate his parents less in the morning. Before he climbs through his window and back into his room, he makes the decision to look up. He had been staring at the ground for too long. He sees a light come on in the house directly across the street from him. He sees a shadow open a window. He sees a shadow crawl out and sit on the sill just like him. The shadow is a boy, about his age but he can’t really see, he’s not wearing his glasses and his eyes are complete shit without them. The boy doesn’t see him staring, see him squinting from right under the dyed jet black hair. Or at least he thinks he doesn’t see him. 

He sees the boy light a cigarette. Then the boy does see him, makes a big show of it, turning his head slow, cigarette dangling from his mouth. They lock eyes. The boy looks slightly hostile. He feels daunted again. He feels scared. He feels far too exposed. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t like the pair of eyes staring into his. 

That’s enough to make his hands slip off the sill. That’s enough to make his legs go shaky and limp. That’s enough for his torso to start to bend. That’s enough for him to keel over and start to fall. Right onto the bushes he hates so much. 

He shouldn’t hate the bushes anymore, after all, he was right. They did break his fall. A little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a thing i wrote!!! enjoy luh u


	2. chapter two

He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there. It feels like a long while. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He just wants to go to bed. Maybe everything will go away if he does. Maybe he’ll feel better when he wakes up. Maybe his parents will find him in the morning. Good, he wants to prolong their wrath for as long as possible. He feels blood beginning to spill and stain his clothes in multiple places. He knows for sure his nose is bleeding. He knows his fall was not a graceful enough one for him to come out completely unscathed. He’s lying face down in a rose bush for God’s sake. His nose is probably fucking broken. And God, his wrist feels like it’s broken too. Fuck. He’s not sure what will make his parents the angriest - his broken limbs, the fact that he crushed his mother’s only good children, or the fact that his blood is most likely soaking through his nice, just cleaned clothes. They used their money on them, after all. The least he could do would be not to bleed on them. They won’t be mad about the medical bills, though, he knows that for sure, they have enough money for those. 

He stays face down, seeing no point in trying to move. It’ll probably hurt too much to do anyway. The bush is poking him, but it doesn’t bother him much. The pain in every other part of his body is much, much worse. A little bit of thorns is the least of his worries. He’s got a lot more on his mind right now, like what the fuck he was thinking to actually go through with actually falling off the goddam window sill. He groans. His whole body feels limp and heavy. Is his lip bleeding too? And, wait, what’s wrong with his ankle? Shit shit shit shit this is not good he should not have let go of that stupid fucking window sill. Fuck that kid smoking the cigarette across the street, whoever he is. He’ll have to fight the guy, in at least six weeks, when all of his wounds and broken bones heal. And when does, he’ll tear the guy apart. He tries opening his eyes, then hates how when he does the pounding in his head that just seemed to fucking appear gets worse, so he closes them again. He really wants to go to sleep. He really wants to like, at least pass out, so he doesn’t have to deal with this anymore. Make it someone else's job, like the fucking EMTs or something. Of course he was lucky enough to break at least two bones, but not lucky enough to pass out from the pain. Great. 

He lays there. Face down in a crumpled bush, that was just moments ago adorned with wonderful bright red flowers that were cared for so well. Those flowers were now, mostly crushed under his weight. He thinks there’s a stem up one of his nostrils. He thinks his hands are bleeding too. He lays there for what seems like hours, until he hears manic footsteps running up to him. He figures it’s the smoking asshole from the house across from him. He secretly hopes that he smokes so much that it’ll kill him. It’s what he deserves. When the footsteps stop, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His whole body feels like he just well, fell out a three story window onto the ground, and it hurts like hell. 

“Holy shit are you okay?” A raspy voice - probably from smoking, damn bastard - kind of shouts. It hurts his head. He didn’t ask for this. 

He decides then that he must move a little. He tries to lift himself up, but his one wrist hurts too much so it’s really fucking hard cause he has to resort to using only one. And, his ankle hurts so bad he feels like he might vomit. His head starts spinning a little by the time he’s flipped himself on his side. He decides that is enough. 

“Fuck you.” He manages to say. It’s the least he could do. 

“Woah, okay, dude, no need to get aggressive I’m just trying to help.” The boy, from across the street, with the raspy voice who will most likely die of lung cancer by his mid to late 30s, says. He looks surprised. 

“I said, fuck you.” The back of his mind is probably telling him it’s wrong to say that and he’s hating the guy for absolutely no reason and he’s the one who fell out the window, so he made it happen, not the bastard in front of him, but he’s too jumbled and fuzzy to even pay any attention to his conscience. He’s too busy just trying to stay conscious. 

Then everything starts to spin a little and his vision starts to go spotty. His eyelids flutter. Damn, he wanted to throw another curse at the kid in front of him. Wait, what did he even look like? Did he even look at him? He doesn’t remember what he looked like from across the street. Everything is so muddled. 

“Woah! Woah, don’t pass out on me, dude I haven’t even called 911 yet, hey! Dude!” The boy is freaking out, waving his hands in front of his face, slapping his cheeks lightly - as if that’ll rouse him - and it annoys him. He fucking did this. Why can’t he just leave him alone. 

The last thing he hears before he passes out completely is a strangled, “Shit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> owo!!! more!!!! :^) enjoy luh yall


End file.
